Surrounded by Death
by book-worm928
Summary: In the heat of the Influenza Edward Mason and his mother find themselves fighting for their lives against the epidemic...While in the heat of it all Edward makes the choice to write a dairy expressing his lonings and other emotions that are foriegn to him
1. Chapter 1

Edward sat alone in the hospital bed, breathing in deeply as he tried to get enough oxygen to travel to his lungs to keep his heart going. They wheeled his mother off only ten minutes ago to be looked at by another doctor, she being the one to volunteer on the new vaccine as opposed to her one and only son. She said that there was still a fighting chance for him, that he could live through this horrid influenza; she said that it was too late for her and it was only a matter of time before she went off and joined his father at the gates of heaven.

Sweat drizzled down his face from the hellish fever that he had to endure, the salted water going along his jaw and dripping down onto the dirty gown he was dressed in. Edward's strange bronze hair that matched his mother's was crusted in dried sweat and dirt, the hospital hardly ever giving him a bath. Edward coughed loudly into the air… trying to get the irritating itch gone. He could feel his own blood boiling under his fever, and he wished desperately for it all to just go away.

"Mr. Mason, your mother is back." One of the many doctors spoke to Edward, but he looked as if he was turning a vibrant shade of fuchsia… his skin seemed to glow under the low lights of the hospital that he and his mother were forced to be treated in… the same hospital that his father—Edward Mason Sr.—had died in just eight months ago. At sixteen, Edward was fatherless and his mother at thirty-six was widowed.

Several nurse dressed in their gowns rolled in Elizabeth, her breathing ragged as she fought her fever harshly. Her green eyes turned to her son, and she smiled faintly, trying to reassure the young boy who was nearly a man that she was fine. Edward didn't buy it. Elizabeth let out a sudden whimper and cowered within herself to find comfort, her son not being able to help and her husband being gone. Her bronze curls were matted in knot, grease staining her yellowing gowns that she bared, and sweat crusting every inch of her body.

Edward looked at the man with the glowing skin harshly, they hurt his mother. "What did you do to my mother?" He demanded, his voice turning horse from his harsh coughing and the influenza getting worse by the day.

"It's fine, E-E-Edward." Elizabeth panted beside him, her now pale hand thrusting outward towards her son for his one form of comfort these days. "I-I just had a small vaccine… n-nothing to wo-worry about, darling." She smiled and her once dull white teeth were a sickening yellow. But Edward did not flinch away from her hand, only held it tighter.

He nodded and let go, returning to his own bed and sighing in slight discomfort. His ribs ached beyond believe from his constant coughing and wheezing of the death infested air he breathes. Edward looked at the doctor standing in the doorway one last time, and opened his mouth to speak. "I believe that my mother and I would like a glass pf water please." He requested, his voice getting even more course as he spoke. His throat felt like it had been burning from the blood that he was coughing up day and night, it was a wonder that he was able to sleep at all.

The man nodded and motioned for one of the nurses to get right on that, and before he passed by the thin white sheet that was hung for their privacy, he told Elizabeth to rest and they will see if her symptoms have gone down. She nodded and closed her eyes, her head lulling to the side as she willed her body to sleep.

Edward achingly lifted his chest to reached under the grease covered and no doubt germ infested pillow to pull out a leather bound book. His name was carved into the front right corner in gold, the last gift that his father had given him. The paged were slightly yellow, but it was only due to the grease that poured from his head as he slept and the sweat that occasionally soaked his pillow. Edward unwound the binding on the book and opened the pages to the first empty one. He reached over and snatch the ball point pen he kept by his bedside and began to write furiously at the page, but his calligraphy was as neat and graceful as ever.

_Dear Diary,_

_It has now been six weeks from today that Mother and I have been in this horrid place they call a hospital. I can taste death when I breath in from the air, and can feel those dying around me; including Mother. She believes that her time will be up soon and that there will be nothing left but me to look after, alas she still fights the influenza like a soldier._

_Mother has faith that I will live through this hell. . . that I will live on the name of my father and continue with a wife of my own and may we be blessed with many children. I do not think that is what is going to happen, though, Dear Diary. I am now seventeen, and still I have yet to find one young female in the least spot attracted to as Father is to Mother. I do not see beauty in those that powder their faces thick and bathe twice a month, or in those that must wear their satin gloved everywhere they walk and their feather covered hats too even in the most scorching of days. I do not want a wife with the smallest waist out of my friends and collogues, I want one that I can love and cherish. . . one that loves me and knows I for who I am. I long to feel the gentle touch a of a woman, yes; but not if it shall mean that I have to lie to her and tell her I adore her and love her. A lady deserves to be treated with nothing but the truth. . . and a real gentleman—or any man—would treat one as such._

_Now I begin to wonder if there is one out there made far me; Father and Mother have always said that there is one who is made for you, and you will know when you meet her. Now I wonder has God made a bride for Edward Mason? Has He taken the time to make on that is truly my other half Dear Diary?_

_If I could name my bride I would like her to have a name that was equally as beautiful as she is… a name that at the sound you would think of an angel, one that you knew just had to be a breath taxingly gorgeous and witty woman. If I could choose such a name I would have to choose. . . _

Edward paused in his writings. He never thought of this until now. Yes, he had met glorious women who's names were a great composition but he wanted something that appealed to him… one that he would know it was his one and only. Edward began to list several names through his mind, trying to find the one he found the best. Evangeline, Rose, Lillian, Esmeralda, Elizabeth, Isabella, Maryse, Clarissa, Victoria… none of them seemed right to him in the slightest. Isabella seemed to hit closest to his heart strings, but it wasn't the reaction that his father described to him whenever he heard his mother's name. Isabelle… that name could easily flow into turning into Isabella.

Suddenly, Edward's heart rate seemed to pick up at the thought of the name. His pulse was already thudding loudly in his ears, but this time it felt different.

_I could have to choose_, he continued on with his writing, _Isabella to be the name of my bride. Yes, Isabella and Edward Mason. Mrs. Isabella Mason. Several different titles she would bear Diary, but to me each one sounds more like a symphony than the last. She would be a bride like no other… I see when I think of the name a woman or average height, and her curves being nice and subtle, not too large and hourglass-like as Catherine is, or too thin like Jennifer is. . . but more like my mother. Her skin would be a lovely shade of pink. . . she would have the reddest cheeks from blushing all the time from her being a modest woman; so red that he cheeks could be mistaken for apples or cherries. She would laugh and smile and my world would light up when I know that I am the one to do that to her. She would glow when she is round with our child, one that we created while making sweet and passionate love in our bed where I shall worship her body for what it is. She would smile at me when it is born, and when she holds our children in her arms each time, she will whisper their name like a sacred God, close her eyes, let one tear fall down the gentle curve of her cheek, and then she will look up at me smiling brightly. When we go to galas and balls all the eyes of every person in the room will be on her as she walks across the floor with her arms linked to mine and we will dance in the center of the floor. Her dress will be the only one that I find lovely, her face is the only one that I will love for its raw beauty, and her love is the one that I shall hold close to my heart always._

_I will love this Isabella, whomever and wherever she may be. . . and I only hope, Dear Diary, that she dreams of me as I do of her. That every night before she closes her eyes and falls into the deep sleep that I know she will love and cherish, she will think of me and when we shall meet. She will whisper my name on her lips as her eyes flutter closed and she will dream happy things. . . and when she opens her eyes in the morning, she will think of the future that she will be waking up with Edward Mason and that she will be happy._

Edward paused, only to cough into his hand to pull away and find dots of blood aligning his skin. Some had slipped past his hand and landed on the paper his entry was on, staining the white pages with a bright red. Edward frowned deeply and wiped the red away, not wanting his Diary to be cursed with the infectious disease that he was dying from.

_But, alas Diary, I cannot meet this wonderful woman. I am dying; although Mother may not wish for me to say, I know that I will die and soon. I know that I will never find the one that I will wish to spend the rest of my life with, and I will not meet my darling Isabella. I will not be able to make her feel beautiful on our wedding night, make sweet love to her in the darkness of the night and have her know that she is the only one to love me as so. I will not see her walk down the isle with her father on her arm and meet me to say our vows and pledge eternity to one another, she will not carry my child. And most of all, my dearest Isabella—whom I have never met—will never know me; she will never touch my cheek when I am weeping, she will never be in my arms as I whisper in her ear of my love, and she will not grace her lips upon my own in a sweet kiss that would be sinful to have just to one man, she will never where the ring that I have given her on her finger and flaunt it to others in pride of me, she will never meet my mother or see the house that we will share as husband and wife, and she will never stay up at the late hours of the night with me rocking our child to sleep—hoping that he or she will just stop their crying and sleep if only for a moment of out time. . . . That my Dear Diary is the worst pain . . . even more than watching my own mother wash to nothing and see her die painfully, it is more painful then never seeing the light of day again. . . it is more painful then this horrid sickness. I will never know of a greater pain then knowing that I will never meet my Isabella. . . he love of my life._

_I bid you goodnight, my darling Isabella, and I wish that you dream happy things of your children and the husband that you shall know. But, know this, I—Edward Anthony Mason—love you, even though I have never met you. Goodnight, my love, and may you're life be more fulfilling than my own._

_Sincerely,_

_Edward Anthony Mason Jr._

Edward sighed at his own writing, cursing himself for allowing such a wonderful woman of his imagination to suffer the way she will be from her never meeting him. She would surely weep at the thought that there could be something better than what she had… a child and a husband like him perhaps?

Edward stuffed the dairy under his pillow and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep through the pain of his through and the blistering fever…

_Someday_, he thought right before his conscience slipped away into the darkness, _I will find Isabella in heaven and tell her I love her… I will not leave her._ And with that being his last thought, Edward slipped into unconsciousness…. Sleeping past the pain right before Dr. Carlisle Cullen walked in to check on the tow.

The vampire smiled at the mother and son, although they could not see and stood next to their beds, observing their states. He had befriended the Masons and wished that either of them were not suffering this terrible fate. Carlisle knew of Edward's dream to run off and fight in the war… to help our troops fighting against the Germans.

Elizabeth sat with her hands folded daintily in her lap, almost as if she weren't in a serious condition. Her eyes were closed and a smile graced her lips as she slept in the filth ridden Chicago hospital. _She's dreaming of Edward and her husband_. Carlisle thought, knowing that was the only time Elizabeth smiled, when she was trying to look tough for her son, or dreaming about joining her husband. Her bronze hair looked like it was ridden with lice and fleas and Carlisle could think of nothing else other than how it was hazardous for her hair to be in that condition when her body already had enough to fight. A sheet of sweat glinted across her forehead, but the doctor knew that is was all over her body. She complained to the doctor in private of how she wished that he son would have better treatment then she, but Dr. Cullen couldn't do anything to help the poor widow.

Her son lay next to her, his arm stuffed under his yellowed pillow, holding onto something tightly, like he was scared to let it go. His hair was just about to turn to a brown color from the amount of dirt and grime that had migrated its way to his lush hair. His face was pale and his eyes fluttered around behind his lids, signaling that he was suffering from a nightmare_—_Carlisle knew that it was from the influenza. A ballpoint pen set on the small bedside table, and some of the ink on the wood was fresh, like Edward had just finished writing.

Curiosity got the best of the doctor as he reached under the pilled to find a leather book, the book that Edward was gripping tightly. Carlisle swiped the book with one of his own, on that he kept on him to list his notes of what was going on and what vaccines worked and what vaccines had killed. Edward grumbled quietly as he rolled over on his other side facing his mother as he slept again. Carlisle smiled to himself as he opened the diary and skimmed over each entry about Edward's pain and his suffering. He flipped to tonight's writing and frowned. He longed for a companion, as had Edward apparently and Carlisle saw had Edward wished to hold the one that he loved closely or have someone to talk with about this, as he had written in some of his past entries…

Carlisle shook his head and set the book back in Edward's hands, as he grabbed his own stuffing it into the pocket of his whit lab coat. Carlisle loosened his shirt color slightly out from discomfort. He checked each of their temperatures and made his way around to check on the other patients; all the while thinking of how nice it would be to have someone to talk to…

**Tell me what you think and if you think that this story is going to go anywhere... I thought that this was a really great idea and I thought that I would give it a shot. Originally in my Word Ducument, the diary entry was written in Edward's hand writing from the book that I downloaded from bellaandedward (dot) com... and yes you can downloak Bella's, Alice's, Charlie's, Jacob's, Aro's and I think that's it... but, since Fanfiction doesn't do that... I have to make do with italics. **

** So Review and tell me what you think!!!!!!!!**


	2. Chapter 2

Edward jerked away, his neck snapping up instinctively as he gasped from his nightmare haunting his sleep for months now. His green eyes were lined with dark purple circles from his sleepless state, and the circles caused his deathly pale skin to look even paler in comparison. Edward moved slightly in his bed to look at his mother tossing and turning next to him, she herself sleepless but Edward was sure that his mother wasn't suffering from nightmares as horrible as his own. They had been haunting every moment that he had spent while unconscious and it was going to drive him to insanity. Edward heaved out a sigh from his discomfort and tried to ignore the spiking pain in his throat as he heaved the loud lungful of air.

The white sheet the surrounded his bed moved slightly and a dark silhouette could be seen against the moonlight, a man most defiantly. He stood at about six foot, maybe just over by a couple of inches, he couldn't be higher than six foot three or two… His body was built to the point where he held muscle, but it wasn't as over bearing on his body to the point where it dominated his overall form. The moonlight bleached out his already pale skin, and you could see that he was clearly a doctor.

"Edward?" The doctor questioned, coming towards the teenager lying in the bed, dying. His face came close to the candle that was flickering away at Edward's bedside; the face was one that Edward knew very well.

"Dr. Cullen?" Edward questioned in his horse voice. "What are you doing here?" By logic, Edward knew that it had to be somewhere in the early hours of morning, just past midnight maybe.

"I'm working. I heard you being restless and thought that I might come in and check up on you and your mother, Mr. Mason." Carlisle replied, sitting on the edge of Edward's bed and pulled up the face mask. Carlisle hated having to wear the dreadful thing, as he could not get infected by the illness, but he had to appear human. Carlisle brought one of his ice cold hands to Edward's forehead, trying to gauge the temperature of his skin. The skin seemed like it would nearly melt off his body it was running a fever so high, and Carlisle could estimate that his temperature was about 103.26°. Edward closed his eyes and let his mind go to the cold hand placed on his skin, reveling in the cold touch it brought and how it seemed to make his harsh fever go down.

"Well, your fever has yet to reduce in temperature, Mr. Mason." Carlisle replied, his tone a void of all emotion. He was not pleased to find out that the fever had gotten worse, and he knew that Edward would surely die soon.

Edward nodded mutely, not trusting his voice to project his feelings on the matter… but he did want to ask Carlisle of one more thing. "My mother… wi-will she live?" Edward asked, his eyes growing sad at the thought of his mother dying.

Carlisle looked at the woman lying next to Edward, her bronze hair sprayed out on the brown pillow and her face turned away from them. Her arms and legs twitched every now and then, causing a shot of pain the hit her son in the heart. Sweat pooled from her pores and spilled onto the sheet that wrapped in a vice around her body, and her eyebrows were furrowed from the nightmare playing out in her head. An involuntary whimper escaped through her tightly closed lips. Edward flinched when he heard the torturous sound, and tears pooled in his eyes. The doctor didn't know how to deliver the inevitable to her son, a boy who is practically an orphan at seventeen; his father never regaining consciousness after his first spell of the epidemic and now his mother… How could just one man that has never had a companion tell a young man that hi smother was surely going to die within the next two weeks?

"I… I think that it's best if we all hope for a miracle, Mr. Mason…" Carlisle sighed deeply before he rose from his seat on the bed and walked out, but not in time to drown out the painful sobs that Edward gave.

Once the words hope and miracle had come from the doctor's mouth, Edward knew that his beloved mother was going to die… How could God do this to one man? Take away his father, not have him meet the love of his life, and then take away his mother as well? Who would do such a thing to just one man?

Edward let the tears spill over his eyelids as he gazed lovingly at his mother's sleeping body. He let out a sob and placed his head in his hands, letting the tears come as freely as they wished. He was surely going to be an orphan now, and his parents had been only children and all of his grandparents dying when he was a young toddler.

How could God do that to just one man? Take away his father, and then have both him and his mother get infected with something and then have his mother die in the process? Why would just one man do that to just another, when the one being punished didn't even do anything to promote such a thing?

The teenager pulled his hands to his eyes a let his shoulders shake violently with the sobs and tears that rolled through his body. The tears rolled down his arms and splashed onto his lap, staining and running to his skin soaking it in the salt water. His strange hair was beginning to stick to his neck and his face was becoming drenched in sweat from his over bearing fever.

After ten minutes of weeping for his soon-to-be loss, Edward took the shot of glancing over at his mother and watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she took. He shook his head sharply, trying to get the iron hot images of this woman with death pale skin and her eyes looking off into nothing as her heart stopped and her lungs began to no longer produce carbon dioxide. The boy reached under his pillow and pulled out the worn leather journal that only he knew he kept hidden there; well, Edward and Carlisle that is.

Edward frantically reached for the burning oil lamp on his bedside and turned up the light just slightly as he snatched the black ball point ink pen from the wood. He opened to the next available page in the thick book. Soon, he began to scribble his writings on the blank page.

_29th__ of May, 1918_

_Dear Diary, _

_Once again, I write to you about how I lay here helpless in this bed, dying of something that I didn't even know was happening until the local paper boy began to shout that the death toll in the state of Illinois had taken quite the dramatic drop. Even the war wasn't this bad; and now I can only imagine Mother thinking about how she wished that I was old enough to get drafted and then possibly I would have been more able to live through this time. Even if I did go off and fight in the mud ridden and filthy trenches I would have had a much better chance of living then this. _

_Dr. Cullen left just about five minute ago after he had told me that Mother was not going to be able to see the next new year; he claimed that it would take a miracle for her to live through this wretched infestation. Why, Diary, must it be my mother? The only one that I feel closest to at the moment when I am isolated in this building, only limited to the space that the doctors give me. Father is already gone at awaiting at the gates of heaven for mother to join him, and here I sit with a better chance at life then a woman who deserves much more than I. _

_These men are inconceivable when it comes to what good it will be that Mother just die now. . . Do they not know of what great good just one person can bring to the world? I may not be wide for my year, but I know of quite a few philosophies of life, Diary. I know that one person can do so much for others, like Queen Victoria of England (may the Majesty rest in peace). She came to the throne of her country at only the age of eighteen, only one more year of age than I, and she ruled her great country with an iron fist. When the great Queen died the loss even struck my own home when Father found out just what had happened; and so an era died with her and a new one began. _

_I believe that Mother should die in her home, from old age and to die peacefully without having to go through this pain and suffering. She deserves to be lying next to Father and his grave for the rest of time itself, and not withering away to nothing in this filthy and unhygienic building that people call a hospital. _

Edward paused in his wirings, trying to ponder in his mind of what he could possibly write down next. Tears still rolled down his cheeks from his earlier weeping over his mother, the water rolled onto the pages lying open in his lap with the faintest of all noises. He was no longer sobbing loudly for his soon-to-be loss, but nonetheless his shoulders still shook somewhat and his mouth would open occasionally and take in a gasp of air to fuel his body. Edward ran his spare hand through his unruly hair and sighed deeply, wishing for something to just pop into his mind for once. He let his piercing green eyes train down onto the half written page sitting in his lap, the ink drying much quicker today.

_Where will I be, dear Dairy, when I shall pass from this horrid illness? I overhear the doctors and nurses daily, how they whisper about one another as if I were deaf about how little room there is in the morgue and how sad it is. They whisper about how they have to place the corpses outside in the open or some spare rooms throughout the hospital. Will that be I, Diary? Will I be one of the dozens that lay piled in a random spare room with no one knowing where I am, or who I am? Will I be placed in a grave with the rest of my family for the rest of time? Where will I be, Diary, where…? _

_All that I can do, Diary, is hope that I will even get a burial at all once I pass; just as I can only hope that my Isabella will marry a man that can give her what she deserves from life. Perhaps, she will meet a college scholar, one who is exceptionally bright and can easily raise children with their constant questions and inquirizations _**( No, by the by, I am not sure that is a word…. It just seems smart.)**_ about the world. He will surely be a stable husband for my darling and give her every thing that she needs in the short life that we have. _

A loud squeaking could be heard from the other side of the sheet of Edward's hospital bed, and the boy quickly stopped all writings as soon as the sound was within his hearing range. He reached over and dimmed the oil lamp down so the light seemed slightly less conspicuous.

Several foot falls came with the squeaking, most of them sounding light and click like… nurses in their heels with their gowns. Only one set was heavier and the soul of the shoe sounded as if it was solid and constant in its path to the heel of the foot.

A sigh was heaved from a woman's throat. "Another one… gone." The nurse choked off at the end of her statement, and quiet sobbing could be heard, muffled by the handkerchief that she was most likely holding.

No reply came to the nurse's obvious statement, only a male sighing as well and the sounds of footsteps walking away into a completely separate direction then the way that they came, to the south side of the hospital where the morgue was located.

Edward waited until he was positive that the doctors wouldn't be able to hear the ball point pen scratching vigorously against the rough paper that composed his deepest secrets and longings. The boy bent his head again and let his hand move along the paper and began to write again, continuing from where he left off before he was interrupted.

_But, I still cannot help the feeling the I have deep down in my heart that it still won't be enough for my lovely and she will always be sitting out on her dream porch sighing and knowing that there could have been something better than what she has. Of course I will never expect for Isabella to speak out loud of her thoughts, knowing that she would find it ridiculous to be thinking such things and will not wish to hurt her husband's feelings, no matter how opinionated she might be. _

_I will never meet this lovely woman, but I feel as if I already know her deep down in my heart and I feel as if I already know her better than any man could know his own life or his lover. I know that even if we can't ever be together in an intimate way that she will be my lover, and it will last until the end of time itself. I love my Isabella and it nearly kills me knowing that I could be with her right now rather than sitting here in this bed dying for no reason or without a fight; my body has turned against me, Diary, and I don't know how to stop it from slowing its pace… Tell me, Diary, how can I feel such an emotion with a woman whom I have only seen or met in my dreams? Is such a thing possible for someone of my age, someone who has never once had any interest in the opposite sex until recently? Why must it be me who has to go through hell and back just so that I can live another day longer? Why must it feel as if the fiery pits of Satan's home be burning inside my skin and not let one thing relieve that scorching pain for just a single moment's worth of bliss? How can it hurt so much to move my arms in the simplest movement, and hardly be able to bend my neck on a string of days in a row? Why would one man create such a horrible disease for His children to live through and then die, when they feel as if a demon has kissed its way around our naked flesh and on the internal flesh as well? Why would God create such a thing for his children to die from, to feel as if they were blessed by the Devil himself, and if God's children do end up going to hell, will it be a relief from the fire that they were suffering in their mortal lifetime, or will it be much the same, Diary? _

_I fill my young mind with questions such as these on a daily occurrence, and I wish for them to go all away, Diary. I wish that I could stop the pain by just simply willing it all away from my mind and trying to seem like I'm not walking at the slowest pace through the pits of hell, and getting lost on the way. _

_I must have committed a sin of a sorts, to have this punishment and still be God's child? Impossible for one that is still the Lord's child. But what, my dear Diary, may I ask have I done to have this cruel sinning punishment inflicted not only on my body, but my mother's and father's along with several other people who I am sure, are a pure a cleansed as holy water. _

_I wish that my life could go back…_

For the second time that night, Edward paused in his writings but for this time he wasn't stopping because he believed that he heard something coming in his direction; no it was much worse then getting caught writing.

Edward bit down on his lip hard, to keep his sudden groan from pain from escaping his thin lips. He set the open book along with the pen down on the thin white bed sheet and the boy rolled over onto his left side, his right hand clutching tightly at his side desperately. The green eyes stayed where they were, looking at the floor as a red haze seemed to surround the outer shell of Edward's vision. _Am I going blind?_ The teenager thought desperately, his mind going into a panic about what could happen now.

The boy's stomach began to turn and twist into impossible knots inside the human being, making Edward wish that he could vocalize the intensity of the pain that he was feeling. Edward's head was somewhat dangling off the edge of his bed, he was making sure that his mouth stayed shut and that no sound came from his lips to disturb his sleeping mother.

A vile liquid began to rise in Edward's wind pipe, burning against the sensitive flesh that aligned his throat; the acid was spitting the blood filled blisters on the sides burst. Blood and acid made its slow escalate up Edward's throat, making his windpipe burn with a fire that seemed much worse then his hellish fever.

Edward's left hand fumbled for something for him to grab onto, something that could force him back up into his bed. The open book fell to the right side of his bed, sliding under the cot to the shadows where no one could see it; but the ball point pen that he was using clattered to the floor—the pen snapping in half when it hit the stone floor of the hospital. The black ink oozed out from the broken remains of the pen, making a dark puddle right in front of Edward's pained green eyes, the ink reminded the teenager of blood.

Edward held back the groan and cry of pain as the combination of acid and blood ran up his throat, and he strained his eyes to keep the red haze that was beginning to blur his vision.

It seemed such and impossible thing to go through, but when Edward could begin to feel the diluted liquid seep into his mouth, and spilling onto his tongue it was now impossible to hold onto such a thing. Edward groaned quietly, the sound was like a construction site to the boy. The liquid spilled from his mouth, a think stream going onto the floor and mixing with the black ink puddle. The liquid was tainted slightly pink, but it was enough to be identified as blood from his blistered the lined his throat. Edward had one of his hands fall limply to the floor, his fingers mixing the ink, blood and acid compound together.

The boy groaned in his pain loudly this time, hoping that someone will heat him, hoping that this burning can be relieved some how some way.

Elizabeth stirred slightly in her slumber, turning her body so that she was now facing her only son. The woman opened her eyes slightly, expecting to see the grand sight of her son sleeping soundly to where he still looked like just any other boy; you could hardly tell that he was dying when he slept. But, when Elizabeth opened her eyes enough to see Edward on his side, half of his body hanging off his bed and vomit spilling out of his mouth in large streams.

Elizabeth gasped loudly and began to cry.

"Help! My son, someone, please help my son!" She yelled, her green eyes going all over the place in search for a nurse or doctor to help her in someway. "My son, h—he's going to die!" She yelled, hot tear streaming down her face.

The white sheet was thrust back from its position against the death filled air and two young nurses walking in, both of them stopping when they saw Edward's condition of health. One shook her head violently as she watch the boy regurgitate all of the contents of his stomach, and the other one ran out in desperate search for help.

Three more nurses walked in, holding down Elizabeth as she tried to struggle out of bed to hold her sick son, and Dr. Cullen walked in a black bag in his hand. He walked over and bent next to Edward. His leather shoes were soaking in the vomit on the floor, as was his wool socks and his trousers, but the doctor could care less at the moment. The man touched Edward's back soothingly as the boy was sick and letting his body take its course of disposing of waste.

"Dr. Cullen, what are we to do with the mother?" One of the nurses asked, pushing against Elizabeth's bust to make sure that she stayed in bed and didn't go anywhere near her son.

"Get her out of here, if you don't soon there's going to be mass hysteria going on all throughout the hospital within a five minute time period." Carlisle ordered, not letting his gaze waver from Edward.

Edward's vomiting stopped momentarily, just enough time for him to cough and groan before the influenza took over once again.

Carlisle knew that something was going on in his body, the influenza was hitting him again; even worse than ever. Edward was one of the best patients when it came to his health with the influenza going around the world. Something had to have triggered his vomiting, anything could have done that.

Elizabeth cried loudly as the nurses wheeled her out of their private quarter, crying that she needed to be with her son. "Please, my son needs me! Please, help him." The woman begged loudly.

Carlisle looked up at the nurses, his face looking beyond his immortal years, looking as if he was an old man that had seen too much just for his life time. His young, pale face seemed to have gained wrinkles in just a short amount of time, and his black eyes were frozen solid, he was not taking the time to put things lightly for once in his long medical career. The nurses flinched when Carlisle took the time to sweep his eyes around the room.

One nurse was brave enough to even ask the doctor a question under his burning glare. "What do we do with the boy?" she asked, keeping her handkerchief close to her mouth at all times.

Carlisle sighed, and removed his glare from the innocent nurses and looked about at the boy who was still vomiting all over the floor. "All that we can do for now is hope that this will all stop; we just have to allow his body to let everything out." He muttered looking down at the sick Edward, his pale skin now covered in a light sheen of sweat.

An iron pale was place right in Edward's thick streams of vomit, catching all of it as it spilled out of his mouth. His groans echoed off the metal walls of the pale as his body continued to let its waste come out from his mouth.

***

"Good night, Dr. Cullen." Edward whispered through his dry and chapped lips. The thin skin was cracked and if he opened his mouth too much then blood will begin to leak out from the open cut.

Carlisle stood at the end of Edward's bed, look at the boy—trying to survey if he was truly alright to leave along again for the night. "Are you positive that you will be alright here alone?" Carlisle asked one last time to be sure of Edward's choice.

Edward nodded his head weakly, trying to ignore the horrible pain in his neck from moving his head too much. His mother was sleeping next to him once again, her eyes were closed lightly and her breathing lightly, her face impassive. Edward was happy that she was next to him again, so that if at any moments notice that he could help her in any way possible. Her bronze hair was splayed out along the mattress, her pillow was taken away per her request. Both of the living Mason's had taken a toll in their health for the worst. Elizabeth now could hardly even talk these days because of the blisters in her throat and her delirium was getting even worse with horrifying hallucinations. Edward could hardly move with the meningitis spreading quickly in his brain. His node bled so frequently now that and extra sheet was required to be draped over his lap at all times.

Carlisle left soon afterwards and Edward carefully reached under his blanket and—wincing slightly—he pulled out the worn leather dairy that he held dear and close to his heart. The edges of the book were tainted with dried blood, the black stains sometimes thick and other times thinner than others; dried blood from Edward's constant coughing. The leather was wrinkled like old skin and it seemed to have taken in dust between the delicate cracks. The book was only about a third of the way filled now, plenty of space still left over for Edward to write in.

Edward reached to the customary nightstand and snatched up his new ball point pen that Carlisle had brought him the night after his episode. The doctor only smiled and winked, setting the black pen on the nightstand and walked off as if he had never even given Edward the pen in the first place.

From the light of the flickering candle by his bed, Edward's elegant script was being inked permanently onto the page that was opened up in front of him. The pen moved elegantly against the page, never stopping and it seemed to flow as smoothly as a gentle flowing river. Edward's hand found the invisible lines easily, all of his words and sentences lined up perfectly. No break interrupted the dance that the pen was having with the paper, the steps were perfectly measured out as Edward continues to write on.

_3__rd__ of June, 1918_

_Dear Dairy…_

**That's the end of chapter two! I hope that you liked it, and I hope that I got some of the descriptions right. I can't wait to get some feedback so that I can get some ideas and trying harder to make everything better. **


	3. Chapter 3

**I have opened up a new poll for this story, all contemplating writing 'sequels' to this if you will. I don't mean a continuation of Edward's early vampire years (Of course that may be a possibility) but more of the other Cullens' stories during their human life. You can vote on the poll on my profile and you can choose up to three answers. Thank you.**

**I know that I haven't updated in forever, but I got caught up in allot of things… But I added some things to this chapter and I hope that makes up for it. **

**Onto Edward, Elizabeth and Carlisle. **

_15__th__ of June, 1918_

_Dear Diary, _

_Mother seems to be getting well again, her color had returned to her skin tone and it is making her look like the woman that raised me. Her pillow has been returned to her again, seeing as her neck doesn't hurt her so much any longer; she can move her neck now from side to side and even nod. Her smile graces us in this room on such a frequency that I always catch myself smiling because of it. Mother's smile shows me that she is feeling well again and she will hopefully be rid of the horrendous illness and be healthy again. _

Edward reread his entry in his leather diary from the previous night, wondering if his recordings were worth the insufferable pain in his lower neck. Edward, of course, believed that it was well worth having his thoughts, feeling and observations written down on the paper forever; he would always believe that his writing of the simplest things of his mother was well worth the pain that he would live through afterwards.

Elizabeth was getting slightly well again, but that didn't mean that she wasn't still dying or fighting off the influenza. Her son had overheard Dr. Cullen speaking with a new nurse just about a week ago now, and he was explaining how the nurses act around the patients. Carlisle was speaking to the new nurse about how the human mind works; he told her that if they believe that everything is alright then the brain will be distracted from their own pain and begin to give the illusion that they are well again normal even. But, in order if this to work their environment needs to appear as if it's getting well again and not the other way around.

This got Edward into acting as if the influenza was not taking such a toll on him any longer, he was smiling and trying to blow off his symptoms as other things and even attempted to put ice on his forehead to make his fever go down slightly. His acting was causing his mother's body to play tricks on her and seem like her health is improving, and these tricks were horrible if not worse then the ones that Edward's body was playing on him. His only motivation at this point was to just to keep his mother going, for her to think that there was a chance for her to live through this pandemic. Edward didn't care if he lived or died any longer at this point, his mother was the only think that was keeping him going at this point.

"You doing this isn't helping you mother, Mr. Mason." A deep, smooth voice sounded from the foot of Edward's cot. The boy jumped at the sudden voice, not aware that a man had walked into the room when he was lost in his thoughts. Edward threw his worn leather diary back under his body once again, hiding it from the world's prying eyes. Edward's lightning green eyes snapped instantly to the man standing at the end of his bed, his eyes already to be guarded to keep the man's questions away from him.

"Pardon me?" Edward asked his tone curt.

Carlisle chuckled slightly under his breath, smiling ever-so slightly as he signed several sheets of paper; death certificates and bills. "You act as if the influenza affects you no longer as if you're getting well again. I know that it's all apart of your plan to help her, but it doesn't help her situation any more than it helps your own, Mr. Mason." Carlisle looked at his favorite patient, his golden eyes warm and comforting for the boy. Edward couldn't help but look into the doctor's eyes; any wonder how his eyes could have gone from slight a dark tone to a light a warm color; almost hypnotizing. Edward could remember that the night he had his episode Dr. Cullen's eyes were the deepest black that he had ever seen, deeper than his imaginings of what hell would be like; and now the doctor comes back and overnight his eyes are gold. Edward thought to before his episode, and he remembered that Dr. Cullen's eyes were once a golden shade as they are now and only a couple of weeks before that they were black. How strange for that… Edward wondered.

Carlisle blinked twice, trying to make Edward's gaze waver from his abnormal eyes just for a moment—it didn't work well. The doctor tried the action again, only this time he backed away from the bed slightly, hoping that this might create some form of a boundary between him and the lonely teenager in front of him.

"How so?" Edward asked, breaking the eye contact that he held with the doctor for several moments. The teenager gave the man an impassive look as he waited for the answer.

"Well, while you're off distracting your mother's mind and your own—both of your immune systems are weaker and the Influenza is hitting you harder than ever. Your mind us just too distracted to realize that you're even more ill than you are." Carlisle spoke, answering Edward's question without even thinking too deeply about it at all.

Edward sat in the bed and pondered in his mind for a moment over what Carlisle just told him. He wasn't a doctor so he couldn't list facts about how Carlisle was wrong that he was feeling worse than ever. To Edward, it seemed as if the doctor knew exactly what he was talking about, no matter how much Edward wished that it wasn't. The boy nodded slowly and thought about how he felt right at that moment when it came to his health.

His neck hurt like someone had replaced his thinner than paper pillow with a cinder block. His fever felt ever more sweltering than it was a few days ago, more perspiration sinking through his pores and tickling his neck. His stomach was twisted in so many knots that it seemed to be a shock the boy could eat.

Carlisle nodded. "I see that you now understand of what I am referring to." He spoke, looking at Edward carefully as he measured the boy's emotions.

Edward nodded slowly once again as he gazed at Carlisle, trying to decipher what the man was. He swallowed the massive lump that was building in his throat after the several moments. "I just want to help her… somehow." Edward said, his tone completely torn open and desperate for someone to tell him the way that his mother could be healed of this horrible disease. His voice broke twice when he was speaking the sentence, and his eyes began to sting horribly from the wells of tears that were threatening to break out.

Carlisle nodded in complete understanding of Edward's feelings, his thoughts going back several hundreds of years before Edward was born and his eyes training to the floor. The man thought of all the things that he could say to the boy, but all of the thoughts that came up in his mind were things that would reveal him for who he really is. "Trust me when I say this: If you want to help your mother, then just talk to her about the feelings that you have been feeling these past few months. Confide in her in her last weeks—maybe days—over your thoughts and feelings of love and isolation that has been sweeping both your mind and body. If you do that then your mother will feel do elated by that single action that you made, she will travel to her death peacefully." Carlisle spoke his words of wisdom to Edward, giving him his soul of what the vampire had gone through several times when his father fell ill in his final months—only Edward didn't know of the doctor's past life in London.

Edward did not respond to the doctor's words of advice, he sat in his dingy bed with his eyes looking down at hid hands as he thought.

Carlisle waited for the young man to say something, but no sound escaped outside of Edward's mind; the two stood there, waiting for one to say something or just walk away. Carlisle waited to speak his thoughts, to scream about how his life wasn't fair and that the world wasn't meant to be like this, that his mother shouldn't be the one that died while sitting in the infection filled hospital. Edward waited for Carlisle to leave so that he could pull out the worn leather journal that was stashed out under the thin pillow, to give out his feelings on paper and to not scream and bother his mother—despite the advice that Carlisle had given him. He wished to confide in his friend once again that night.

Neither one of the men moved.

Eventually Carlisle gave up and walked away from the bed, leaving Edward to his thoughts and friend; leaving the poor teenager alone, a prisoner to his own mind at this point. Edward bit back the sob that rose in his throat and even reached all the way up to his mouth—his just bit his tongue—and he fought back the ocean's worth of tears that were starting to swell in his eye. He pulled his bottom lip up to rest in between his teeth and he bit down on the flesh, hard. One single and solitary tear escaped from his eyelid and slid down his sweaty and flushed cheek, making its way to his chin and dripping off the tip of the strong line. The droplet of water fell with gravity and splashed against the skin of his adjoining hands.

A dry so came from his lips and went through the air, unnoticed and unheard by all others in the hospital.

Dr. Cullen took his hate and slipped it on his blonde hair as he put his coat over his broad shoulders, getting himself ready to head home for the night. The vampire stuffed his hands seep within his silk lined pockets of his trousers, pulling on the elastic suspenders slightly as he walked out of the lousy excuse of a hospital. The chilly wind seemed to break around his well muscled body, only rousing his clothes that lay limp on his body and the small amount of blonde locks that were showing under the brim of his hat. The pale man kept his head down as he walked along the sidewalk, ignoring the panicked stares that he was receiving from the people around him. The man was walking about in the open air and he was not wearing one of the many face masks nor was he holding his handkerchief up to his mouth to prevent the spread of the Influenza. Carlisle knew that he would never catch the pandemic—he would live until the end of time, unless a vampire is willing to rip him apart in the future.

The streets weren't nearly as crowded or filled as they normally could be if the city weren't under a deadly illness at the moment. The few people that were going about had their hands close to their mouths, and were taking in short, shallow breathes. Carlisle wanted to laugh at their foolishness that these humans had on their health.

The vampire continues to walk down the street, stopping only to wait for the trolley to take him outside of the condensed city. Of course he could just run home from the hospital, or just continue walking along the streets until he arrived home. But he knew that he had to keep himself off the radar for a few years, keeping a low enough profile so that his friends from Italy didn't decided to pay him a visit.

"Just three more months Carlisle, you can wait just three more months." He whispered to himself, trying to convince himself that he could and would wait that long until he packed up and moved across the country once again. He had set up and quick countdown in his mind of how many days he had until he was able to leave this city and no longer claim that he was in his residency in this horrid city.

The trolley slowed down to its last stop on the route, giving Carlisle the know that they were done and that he was to get off. Carlisle walked forward and tossed a dime to the driver, telling him to keep the change and he got off of the vehicle, wanting to go home.

Once he was off of the trolley, Carlisle stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets again and walked alongside the road, keeping his head down at all times and not looking up for more than a car passing by. He walked for only about ten minutes before he came upon his abode, the house being just the finest size for a family of three or four. He ran at his top speed to the door, opening it and strolling in his empty home.

A single leather arm chair was placed in his living room, a side table was set next to it—holding several stacks of books—and a tall, thin floor lamp right behind the set of two. Several book shelves were set up along the walls of the empty home; older leather bound books, medical journals, dairies, history books, and legend mythology books lined each shelf—each of the books being a different size, shape and color than the two that were sitting right next to it. A small wooden table was placed in the appropriate position in the formal dining room that was set off from the entry of the house; the table was only a prop to Carlisle and nothing more.

Carlisle removed his coat, taking the time to place it on one of the hooks on the coat rack that was set off to the left. He raised his right hand to grip the peak of his hat and removed that as well, setting it atop the coat rack.

The vampire spent his night reading his encyclopedias and medical journals that he had bought over the time that he has been roaming the earth. One thing, though, constantly occupied the man's mind: Edward Mason and his mother.

_Just what is so different about that young man?_ Carlisle questioned, his finger tapping lightly on his left temple as he thought. _The two of them are such a curious pair… Neither of them cares to live through this but they wish for the other to live more than their own… I wonder… _

Carlisle pondered the thought most of the night, and his mind naturally going back to his times in London when he was only a boy, and his father having great expectations for him.

"_Carlisle!" A man barked. _

_A young boy only in his late teens was outside in the garden tending to the vegetables that he and his father lived on. His shaggy blonde hair was drenched in his sweat, and his mud ridden shirt showed that he was working hard as well. He turned quickly and his grey blue eyes fell on the elderly man that was walking toward him, his long black robes from the church blowing in the late afternoon wind of London. His white hair was set in the most sophisticated style that his son could perform while under pressure. The black leather bound Bible was clutched closely to his chest, and the rosary that marked the page that the church was on dangled in the wind. _

_The young Carlisle wiped his forehead with his forearm, trying to look his best while working over the garden that his mother left behind._

"_Yes, Father?" Carlisle asked, keeping his tone far from friendly. _

"_What do you think you are doing?" His father demanded, his old eyes going over his son and the pile of dirt that was lying at his feet. _

_Carlisle stuttered among his next words, trying not to sound like he was hurt with that fact that his father didn't like him tending to their only source of food. "I am trying to keep the garden healthy, this way we can eat better and—"_

"_We do not need this, my son. This is women's work, and men do not do it." He father held his chin high as he spoke of the way that society worked. "You are to help me plan the next witch hunt, the Smiths think that Juliet Taylor is performing rituals that lead others to sign the Devil's Book… and you need to learn this." _

"_I don't wish to hunt women when they're accused of witchcraft; I wish to heal those that are ill with the plague and—"_

"_Witchcraft!" The elderly minister gasped, holding his Bible even closer to his body now. "I will not hear of this from my own son! You will be Minister of the village, and you will not speak of such witchcraft! Do you understand me?" He shouted, his words slashing through Carlisle like a sharp sword. _

_The teenager hung his head in his disappointment of not being able to please his father in the way that he wished. Tears began to sting his eyes and he fought them back with all the strength that he had; he didn't want to be scolded by his father again for being weak. "Yes, Father. I understand; no healing." Carlisle spoke, the words stinging his throat like poison. _

Just a few years later, in order to show his father that he was a man, Carlisle lead a vampire hunt. The fate of the man was far from what his father wanted his son to accomplish in his fight of approval.

"_Let's go men!" Carlisle shouted, holding his torch high in the air._

_The men behind him cheered and had their torches and weapons ready for when they came face-to-face with the creature of the damned that they were hunting for. The small mob of men and boys marched in the streets as the woman gathered their children about and brought them to their homes, locking up and dousing all of the candles in their homes. _

_Carlisle had spent weeks, and even months planning this hunt; he had stayed out of home late and went days without sleep in order to see one of the damned that he was to hunt. One night he saw a faint shadow crossing the mud roads of London and two others followed him. Carlisle knew then that he had found the creatures that he was going to hunt._

_Now all of the men in the village were gathering around the spot where Carlisle has seen one of the creatures rise, waiting for it to emerge and to kill it. After an hour and a half of waiting, a silhouette came from in front of them—the aura around the creature glowing about the likes that of a ghost._

_One of the younger men couldn't wait for the creature to turn, so he shouted and began to charge at the creature, holding his torch high in the air. Most of the other men followed him, despite Carlisle's urges to stand their ground and wait. _

_The creature seemed startled by the sudden charge at him. He turned quickly, much too quickly for that of a man, and he saw the mob of men barreling towards him—all of them intent on killing him. His eyes seemed to glow from his hunger, dark crimson eyes that showed anger and murder deep within their depths. "_Run meus prosapia, effugio illa humanus! Run quod alieno super Ego!_" He shouted behind him, and he turned quickly on his heel and began to run in the same direction that the mob of men was chasing him in. _

_Carlisle ran ahead of the others, trying to stay in the front of the hunting crew. The creature quickly turned on him and sprang at him, its mouth open wide and his eyes glowing from thirst of a millennia. It grasped his shoulders tightly, and Carlisle could hear his bones shattering at the touch. The weight of the vampire fell hard on the human and sent him towards the earth, helpless. Once the pair was on the ground the creature to the opportunity to bare its teeth and bite into his flesh, immediately drinking the hot, rich liquid that flowed into his mouth. Carlisle screamed and gasped in his sudden and began to try to fight off the feasting being, but his strength and energy was growing thin by the moment. The entire scene played out in less than two second of time. _

_The other men caught up, the vampire sensed their coming quickly. He released Carlisle's throat from his iron grasp and hissed at the other humans for interrupting his wonderful meal; then he let go of the man and began to run again—leading them away from his coven. _

_The men that was left in the mob continued on with their hunt, leaving Carlisle in the streets, bleeding and in an immense pain._

Carlisle snapped out from his memory and excused all thoughts of his past and of the Mason family, not wishing to think of the painful years that he had to suffer through.

**I hoped that you all liked this chapter and I can't wait to see what you think of it!**

**Remember to vote on the poll on my profile!**


	4. Verry Important NOTE!

**Dear Readers,**

** I know very well that I haven't updates this story in a very long period of time, but I can assure you that I have the next completed chapter on my laptop right now. **

** The only problem for this is that... My charging chord on my laptop isn't in working order at the moment, and I used up the last of my battery trying to write as much as I could.**

**I do not have a flash drive that works at the moment, and no one in my house with a computer has the same program as I do. I do not know how long it is going to take for me to get my charging chord to work again, but I can promuse that it will be working within the month. **

** If you can just wait a little patiently as you have been for quite sometime now, I will greatly appreiciate it from you wonderful, wonderful readers. **

** I will be going to my dad's this coming up weekend, and hopefully I can get the chord fixed when I get there. Now, I need to do some editing on the newest chapter of 'Surrounded by Death' so it won't be posted at least for another two weeks or so. **

** I greatly thank each and every one of you that is willing to wait for the next chapter, I promise that the story will soon come to a close, but there will be continuations of the story later on. **

** I thank my little brother for allowing me to borrow his laptop just so that I could write this Author's Note.**

** With the deepest gratitude and respect for her readers,**

** ~Bookworm928**


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